


2009 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru

by fragile-teacup (Mrs_Gene_Hunt)



Series: The Spaces Between [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Gene_Hunt/pseuds/fragile-teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the #DrunkenKissesChallenge for @hannibalcreative on tumblr.<br/>A 1000 word short fic that takes place at the end of Tome-wan (Season 2 Episode 12).</p><p>I'm <a href="http://fragile-teacup.tumblr.com/">fragile-teacup</a> on Tumblr. Drop by for a visit any time!</p>
            </blockquote>





	2009 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PKA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PKA/gifts).



He could blame the lingering euphoria of their revenge game.

Will steps inside the office, shrugs out of his cashmere and wool coat, folds it neatly over the back of the couch. A glint of silver catches his eye. An ice bucket, bottle of white snug inside. Hannibal intercepts his enquiringly gaze.

'2009 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru. I thought we could use it to toast Mason's...' A pause, amusement in the familiar head tilt. 'Transformation?'

'Why not? While we’re at it, maybe we should send Margot a bottle,' Will drawls acidly.

Hannibal smirks. 'An excellent notion. And perhaps a box of straws for poor Mason.’

Will shrugs. ‘His face, his choice.'

Drunk on adrenaline, he huffs out a laugh, flops on the couch, pushes up his shirt sleeves.

  
He could blame the lateness of the hour.

Time seems to have gotten away from him tonight. It's too easy here, too comfortable. Strolling the perimeter of Hannibal's domain, taking guilty pride in his privileged status, Will trails caresses, feather-light, across Hannibal's possessions, smugly conscious of Hannibal's smouldering appreciation. Secret smiles flash on and off.

Drunk on power, he stalks toward the desk where Hannibal sketches.

  
He could blame the firelight.

Listening to the steady drip, drip of honeyed words, Will lingers, allowing intimacy to grow with every verbal push-and-pull.

Achilles and Patroclus.  
Hannibal and Will.  
Hiding and revealing.

The flickering flames delineate every plane and angle of Hannibal's features. Like loving fingers, they smooth away the lines of care so that to Will's savagely tender gaze, the years fall away and a youthful optimism softens the eyes that look up at him.

Trusting.  
Worshipping.

Breath catches in his throat. 'This isn't sustainable.'

Drunk on Hannibal's adoration, he forces himself to turn away from that upturned face, retreats to the fireplace.

  
He could blame the FBI.

Jack inhabits every shadowy recess of Will's mind, and in each one he is screaming and pushing and _fucking pushing_ some more. He deserves a reckoning with Hannibal. Forcing a confrontation between them will provide relief... though for whom, Will isn't entirely sure. He isn't sure of anything anymore. His moral compass is spinning wildly and if Jack is his North Star, why is it that it’s Hannibal who shines the brightest?

Drunk on recklessness, he allows Hannibal's radiance to pull him back.

  
He could blame his curiosity.

A glance over at the Montrachet. It must be perfectly chilled by now. Hannibal watches, expectant. Leans back in his chair, toying with the pencil.

'Shall I pour?'

Will shrugs. Takes another step toward the desk. And another, until he's back in Hannibal's orbit.

Dazzled.  
Hypnotised.

'What does it taste like?' He has to concentrate on shaping the words, flicking out his tongue to moisten his lips. And, oh god, Hannibal's eyes are now fixed on his mouth.

'Dry, rich, honeyed.'

Desire roughens Hannibal's thick accent and an answering arousal coils fierce in Will's belly. He should leave. Right now. But he's retreated once tonight; he can't do it again.

'Sounds... delicious,' he murmurs, swaying closer.

Intent.  
Resolved.

Planting his left hand on the desk, he cups Hannibal's jaw with his right and rubs the pad of his thumb across Hannibal's bottom lip. Heat flares between them and Hannibal's lips part on a sigh. Leaning in, Will replaces his thumb with his mouth. Soft pressure at first, then firmer. They fit together beautifully, as he feared they would. Hannibal's hands come up to fasten in his hair, fingers threading Will's curls, gripping hard as Will works his way inside Hannibal's mouth. Ah, the thrill of penetration; the hot, sweet slide of tongues.

_Forbidden fruit._

Licking into each other’s mouths again and again until they are forced to surface for air, both breathing hard.

‘What do _I_ taste like?’ Hannibal murmurs against Will’s lips.

Will hums, narrows his eyes, considering. Smiles. 'Dry, rich, honeyed.’

Beautiful.  
Necessary.  
_Mine._

Closing his eyes, he brushes their lips together once, hands slipping into Hannibal’s hair, carding through the silky strands. Hannibal shudders, composure slipping.

'Stay.' The word a low, throaty growl against Will's mouth. 'Stay with me tonight, Will.'

'Can't. Not tonight. Maybe – maybe tomorrow.' The lie chokes him. His desperate need for it _not_ to be a lie terrifies him.

Hannibal makes a soft sound of displeasure. Pouts.

Helpless to resist, Will snares Hannibal's swollen bottom lip between his teeth, tugs, strokes it with his tongue before plunging back inside to kiss deeply, frantically. Because he knows that the first time must also be the last and it's tearing him apart.

He wants to kneel at Hannibal’s feet, press hot kisses to the thick outline of his obvious erection. He wants to drag Hannibal out of his chair, bend him over the desk. He wants… impossible things. He breaks the kiss and pulls away.

‘Will?’ Hannibal’s voice is rasping, needy.

Drunk on lust and desire, painfully hard, he staggers back from the desk, eyes stinging, unable to hold back the moan that's ripped from his throat.

  
He could blame a whole lot of things for those kisses, Will thinks bitterly, unable to meet Hannibal's gaze as he mutters a flurry of apologies and heads for the door. But he can't blame the 2009 Bâtard-Montrachet Grand Cru.

Fumbling for the door handle, he catches a glimpse of it nestling in the silver ice bucket on the side table.

Its untouched seal mocks him.

Dragging a shaking hand across his face, he pauses in the vestibule, listening for Hannibal moving around in his office, for the clink of unused glasses being collected and put away. Nothing. Nothing but pounding silence.

Will rests his hot forehead against the cool wood, palms flat against the door. His sudden desperation to tear down this and all the other barriers that lie between them terrifies him.

It must end.  
_They_ must end.

Pressing his lips to the grain, he murmurs a broken goodbye. Three syllables. Every one an apology.

‘Hannibal.’

Drunk on grief, he stumbles out into the darkness.


End file.
